The Chesapeake Tapes

There were 13 seconds of silence on the end of a cassette tape that was lying on the baseboard you’ve been trying to get repainted for weeks. There were 13 seconds of violence not hidden by your face as you were crying into a wadded up old pile of your cum and tear stained sheets. You have 13 seconds to stop me, to dissuade me from walking out to my car and heading straight to a bar so you probably should start talking. As things stand, I understand you’ve got your shit – whatever. Let the record show that I am by myself no better. But this time it is established that this story will end tragically for one of us and no, not me. Please don’t fuss – it has to be unless by some bright divine act you come up with a reason for me to come back. Which you won’t – that I’m certain. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry by all accounts I’m deserting you now but I can’t even handle my own shit – why am I here?